


Star Witness

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, First Dates, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Jealousy, Past Relationship(s), old loves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It has nothing to do with Will. She's absolutely clear on that when she sees the missed call and slips from the Candelas' living room—the command center, as Castle insists on calling it—into Alfred's studio."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star Witness

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot episode tag for Little Girl Lost (1 x 09)

  
  


The look on your face yanks my neck on the chain

And I would do anything

To see you again

— Neko Case, "Star Witness"

* * *

 

It has nothing to do with Will. She's absolutely clear on that when she sees the missed call and slips from the Candelas' living room—the  _command center_ , as Castle insists on calling it—into Alfred's studio.

She leans against the wall to catch her breath. To tell herself again that it's just timing and nothing at all to do with old wounds or the one–two punch of him showing up. Kissing her like she's just going to fall back into his arms because the stars and the FBI are in alignment for now.

She opens her eyes to the huge, hideous canvas looming across the narrow space and thinks better of it. She bolts upright, dusting off her backside and stabbing the call-back window before she can overthink it any further.

It's a ring and a half before there's a solid click and blank white panic.  _Voice mail,_  she realizes. She was absolutely  _counting_ on voice mail and her knees go weak when she hears the chunk over to the recorded version of him.

_Good voice_ , she tells herself, and it's true. Deep without working at it, and just a hint of an accent. Not New York. Not the northeast at all. She's puzzling on it. Trying to place it when the beep comes sharp in her ear and she hasn't given the slightest thought to what she's going to say.

"Mason!" That comes out too loud. Too cop. "Sam," she corrects herself, "it's Bec . . . Kate. From the gym."

She wonders if they'd hear it in the command center if she banged her head against the wall.

"Saw you called. I'm on a case. Working with the FBI, actually," she hears herself say and winces again. It sounds like bragging, and she doesn't have the faintest idea what made her say it. "Anyway. I haven't had a chance to listen to your message, but thought I'd . . . check in. So. Ok."

She slaps at the face of the phone, worrying too late that the violent sound might make for the ultimate tag to an already cringe-worthy message. She hauls open the studio door and runs directly and all-too-literally into Castle.

"Whoa!" He catches her by the arms and spins her out of the clattering path of a stack of small canvases she's managed to topple on her way out. He looks from the buzz of the living room to the close confines of the studio. "Something?"

He must think he's whispering. He's definitely  _not_ whispering and she wonders if it's the downstream effect of being raised by an actress or it's all  _him._

"Nothing. No," she hisses back. Not whispering either. Making it infinitely worse by actually tearing some FBI eyes from some FBI screens. Drawing a look from Will, but Castle is the clear and present danger, edging around to block any view of her from and all the while trying to get a peek at the phone in her hand.

"Nothing," she says again. Harsher than she means it, but it is. It's nothing.

* * *

 

Mason— _Sam_ —texts her back with flattering promptness. He's on a case, too. Admits he got busted for not having his phone entirely on silent.

_Didn't want to miss your call. So much for that._

He's awkward, too, but it's charming on him. He's gracious. Following her lead without missing a step in letting her know he's definitely interested.

She is, too. Her stomach rises and falls at the back and forth. She's excited, even, and it's got nothing to do with Will. Nothing to do with anything else.

She tells herself she's excited when she dials his number again, later that night. A lot later, but it's down to nothing but terrible paperwork by then. They're handing things off to family court. Giving drive-by statements to social workers. She figures there's no way he'll answer. He's anti-crime and their shifts are way more regular, but she dials anyway. He's been patient and it's her turn in their game of phone tag.

He does answer, though. A half ring, and he answers. Her name, rather than hello.  _"Beckett?"_  He stammers and she just makes out an off-mic curse.  _"Kate, I mean. It's Kate, right?"_

"Both," she says. "Kate _and_  Beckett," she finishes lamely. It sounded funnier in her head, but he laughs anyway.

He laughs in all the right places. He says the right things about the case. Concerned, but not nosy. Deftly turning the conversation to his own case without coming off as self-important. Listening eagerly when she swaps a story of her own.

_Interested,_ she thinks again. She leans back into the brick and looks out over the bullpen, zoning for no good reason other than the toll the case has taken on her. It takes her too long to register the gaping silence. Long enough that he gives her an out.

_"Kate? Am I cutting out?"_

"No." She shakes herself. "Sorry. I'm . . . it's still crazy here. I just got distracted for a second."

_"Guess that's my answer, then. I figured it was a long shot, given how late it is._ " He pauses. Good-natured enough, but disappointed in perfect proportion to it.  _"Tomorrow, maybe?"_

She sees Will through the wire cage. Through glass and half-drawn blinds, nodding and serious as he briefs someone she doesn't recognize. Some bigwig who'd shouldered into the case at the eleventh hour.

"Tonight."

She hears herself say it, and it has nothing at all to do with him. Nothing at all to do with the case or . . anything else. The word just slips into a gap in the replay her mind gives her of the last half minute or so. Her stomach rises and falls. She tells herself it's a sign. A good sign.

"A drink. Tonight's good."

* * *

 

She weathers the moment with Will somehow. It's strangely easy and terribly awkward at once, like she's out of herself while it happens. Trying to decide if it's expected or unexpected. Trying to figure out why she doesn't give him a flat  _no,_ when that's what she means, isn't it?

But she doesn't, and he goes. Not without the last word, of course.

_Think about it_

There's just enough smug on it that she thinks of calling after him. Indulges in two seconds of a childish fantasy where Sam materializes to whisk her off on their date, and they leave Will standing slack jawed.

But it's Castle who materializes. Castle who pointedly settles back into his chair and says exactly the right stupid things to lift it from her. The strangely easy, terribly awkward moment. It's Castle who makes her realize that she did mean no. A definite no, and she  _won't_ think about it.

She almost tells him, wondering all the while why on earth it's something she wants him to know.

_Needs him to know._

The thought strikes her. Opens her eyes wide and takes her back to the Candelas' apartment. To his antics with the FBI tech. To his distractingly open shirt and a strange, tangled conversation. Two strange, tangled conversations, at least.

_Hey. It's gonna be okay._

_What happened in the kitchen . . ._

_You don't need to explain that . . . unless you want to_

_Be careful, okay?_

She's caught up in it. Puzzling over the layers of it. What he meant and she meant. She's still puzzling—lost in thought—when he surprises her. Well and truly surprises her.

"What say we celebrate by going out for a drink?"

It's casual. Very  _carefully_  casual, but he holds his breath. It matters. What she says matters, and the truth, of all things, pops out.

"I can't. I've got a date."

Her insides tilt, and she can't tell if it's good or bad. If it's about the date she has or the one she seems to be saying no to.

They look at each other a moment. A sidelong, stolen glance on each side. She sees him swallow hard, and then it's gone. They retreat to their corners. They drop into their usual banter and she goes. Not without the last word, of course.

"Maybe there's a little more Nikki Heat in me than you think."

* * *

 

He scares the life out of her. He bursts through the stairwell door just as the elevator opens on the parking level, and she only just manages to pull her punch. It winds up a glancing blow to the shoulder.

"Ow." His hand flies to the spot, rubbing hard. He scowls at her. "That really . . . .  _Ow!"_

"What the hell, Castle?" She scowls back, biting down hard on the nonsensical urge to apologize. To check to make sure he's not really hurt. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you."

"Might've hurt less." He pulls his collar wide open trying to peer at the skin underneath.

"You sneak up on a cop, you deserve what you get."

"I'm in front of you." He squares his shoulders, puffing out his chest to demonstrate. "How is that sneaking up?"

"Castle!"

The sharp snap of his name hits the concrete and bounces back to them. He looks up, sincere. Dropping the act entirely.

"Do you really have a . . . date?" He stumbles over the word and it's different. None of the teasing incredulity of five minutes ago. He looks at his shoes, then back up at her. "You said you did.  _Do._ " He glances over his shoulder at the car waiting three quarters of the way down the aisle and back to her again. A moment of study, and the next words seem to slip out. "But I don't know if you're messing with me."

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes. Not the truth this time, and she doesn't know what makes the difference, other than him. The way he is right now. Tentative and raw, like he didn't plan any of this. Running after her to have this conversation. She's never seen him this . . . guileless.

"Guess that's a yes, then." He gives her a smile that makes it a little way past half-hearted.

"Yes I have a date, or yes I'm messing with you?"

The words are too loud, like he's clear across the garage already. He laughs a little. Thinks it's his cue. A not-so-subtle hint about what is and isn't allowed, and she's tired of the roll of her stomach.

"I do," she says. "I have a date."

"Don't go." It comes instantly. Without a smile at all. A plea. "Come have a drink with me."

"Why should I do that?"

She's not smiling, either. It's a silly thing to say. Something that annoys him a little, and she  _does_ want to smile at that. But she wants to know, too. She wants to know what in the wide world he'll say. She stands her ground.

"Because I asked nicely?" His face screws up at the unintentional question mark.

"You asked  _twice_ , Castle."

"But nicely the first time," he protests, realizing too late what he's gotten himself into. "I guess asking you to stand up . . . whoever it is probably doesn't qualify as 'nice' in your world."

"Not nice."

She gives him a sliver of a smile. He gives it back and time ticks on.

"I should go," she says, though she feels rooted to the spot.

He nods. Recovers himself and steps out of her way. She moves past him in a wide arc that's miles more awkward than any unintentional brush of hands or shoulders could have been.

"Will you call and tell me how terrible it was?"

She's halfway across the garage when he calls out after her. He hasn't moved an inch. He's standing there with his hands in his pockets, and it's not quite a joke.

"What makes you think it'll be terrible?" she asks, her hand on the door.

"Premonition." He gives her a wink big enough to travel all that way. One more laugh. A kindness, but the act drops again, abruptly. The last word slipping out. "Wishful thinking."

He owns up to it. Holds her gaze for just a second, then turns and goes.

* * *

 

It's not terrible.

The bar is just right. A huge relief, given that she'd drawn a blank when Sam had suggested it, but it's just right. Not trendy and not a dive. Not loud and not so overtly romantic that she feels cornered. She orders a beer, and he follows suit.

The conversation is easy. A little shop talk weaving in and out of other things. He has a bike, too, and he's neither over-the-top impressed nor condescending about the fact that she does. They like some of the same music and some of the same movies. The spar when they don't intersect and end up laughing about it.

He's a nice guy, and it's not terrible at all, but she's not sorry when she lifts her bottle and it's empty. She's not sorry that he reads the motion and doesn't push for a second.

He intercepts the check, slipping cash into the leather folder and murmuring,  _No change, thanks_ , to the waiter. Matter of fact. Nothing aggressive in the gesture. She thanks him, in turn, and it's not awkward.

It's not terrible, even when they're facing each other on the street and there's no getting around the fact that they live in opposite directions.

He leans in unexpectedly.  _Really_ unexpectedly, and she wonders suddenly if she's read the last hour or so wrong. But his kiss lands on her cheek. Very definitely on her cheek.

"I had a good time," he says, smiling like he knows they're doing their lines out of order.

"Me, too," she says and means it, but this is kind of where it ends.

"Maybe coffee or something some time?"

There's a little edge to that. A little regret and sudden insight that she's probably the one who's kept them in the  _not terrible_ latitudes tonight.

"Or something."

She nods and she means that, too. Probably she means it, but all the same, she doesn't land a kiss on  _his_ cheek. All the same, she turns and goes.

* * *

 

She takes the car all the way back to her apartment. It'll be a pain in the morning, but she's tired. It's a pain parking, even with the NYPD sign to throw on the dash. The loading zones and no-parking-here-to-corner spaces are already taken up by desperate souls who'll curse the unfairness of it all come sun-up, and she won't block hydrants or access spaces.

She scores a miracle on her third circle of the block. Somebody just pulling out and not a blinker in sight. A good omen or a karmic reward for some good deed in another life. The thought makes her smile. Makes her think of him, and she has her phone out before she knows it.

She's not calling. She's absolutely  _not_ calling, but her fingers have a wicked mind of their own. She thumbs back to her texts and it's done. The work of less than a moment.

_Three stars . . ._

The screen lights up again, instantly.

_Out of ten or five?_

She laughs loud enough to worry at the movement behind her neighbor's door as she passes. She picks up the pace, rushing through her own door, feeling giddy. She leans against it. Makes herself stand there, phone pressed to her belly until it settles. Until her breathing slows and she's sure she won't do anything stupid. Pretty sure she won't.

The phone's lit up when she peels it away to peek. Of course it is. It's been all of two minutes and he has the patience of a gnat. It's nothing new. What he has to say is nothing new at all, but her insides rise and fall again.

She's too tired to wonder about it, though. What it means. She decides she's too tired and steals one last peek.

_Until tomorrow, Detective._

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn't what I was trying to write, but the Brain wants what it wants. Thanks for reading.


End file.
